Falling Up
by Hannah the Scribe
Summary: A quick look at the Hob's and, more specifically, Gale's reactions to aspects of the Games - set after the arena fire. Could be considered one-sided Gale/Katniss. Written for The Rebel's Holiday Fic Exchange.


**Falling Up**

_Crunch, crunch, crunch. _A last few footsteps appeared in the slush, tinged gray with coal dust. The dark streets of the Seam were empty, and the only sound was the slow creak of a door opening as he entered the Hob. A gentle, golden glow of light from a fireplace greeted him, but the rest of what he took in was much less serene.

There was definitely something in the air. He could simply feel it bearing down on him, like something about to fall. It was a storm about to break. It was a pot on the brim of boiling over. Something was increasing the gravity, tying them all down, down, down. Everything was happening in slow motion, but there was no time to think, to feel. Movements were heavy. Words were quiet, unnaturally so. It was that split moment of silence before a _bang_, the whispers before an unruly crowd was called to order, the few pitter-patters of falling raindrops before the first low, distant roll of thunder. The moment itself was balancing on an incredibly thin wire about to snap.

He'd experienced the feeling before, but only in the woods―when faced with the prey, neither moving. The unexpected moment before he loaded his bow, and before the soon-to-be catch could think to move, to run away. It was the only comparison he had―how else would he let himself get lost in the thoughts?

A cold breeze slammed the door shut behind him, louder than intended. Several of the regulars turned over their shoulders to give him a quick glance, and though there was a bit of recognition―and something else, he wasn't sure what―in their eyes, all ignored him, turning back to a cheap, cracked screen propped up against a wall.

He shook some of the snow out of his hair and off his jacket before taking a few eerily silent steps forward. No one dared to say anything to him, and several stepped out of his way with terse whispers and wide eyes. One woman started to reach out to him, but someone else caught her arm and shook their head. "Don't. He won't want to hear it."

The whispered words just reached his ears and he could feel his own anxiety growing. Hear? Hear what? What was the warning against? As he continued to walk forwards with small, precise steps, the attention of the room seemed to be slowly collecting onto him, silence hushing any words to be spoken. Finally, his cold gray eyes came to rest on the screen, and he could clearly see what everyone was so anxious about.

Katniss―no, _his _Catnip―was trapped in a tree, with the six Careers on the ground below her. _Them_, and _him. _Peeta. _The traitor, _he thought. Then, _the competition. _Maybe he wasn't planning to betray her quite yet. But at this point in the Games, it would've been hard to tell if he was lying. What good was something so trivial as _honesty_ in the Games?

There was a slight thud as the game bag in his hand hit the ground, the only sound in the now quiet room. He was unaware of it. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, now.

"Oh, let her stay up there. It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning."

_So maybe he is on our side. I should be grateful to him. _But he wasn't. _It'd be easier if he were the type you could hate. _No, he didn't like "the boy with the bread". He never would.

Everyone in the room drew in a collective breath as they waited for the Careers' reactions. But they agreed. Instantly, the room seemed to relax, as if they had just reached the other side of a collapsing bridge. No danger, now. No concern. No call for panic.

That would be something for the morning.

He wasn't stupid. This wasn't over. For as long as the Games went on, the Careers, like him, would never forget. They would remember her out-doing them in training, Peeta's domination of the interviews, _both _of them stealing the show at the opening ceremonies. The "star-crossed lovers" of District Twelve―oh, how he _hated _it when people said that―were slowly, slowly, taking these Games away from the Careers, and even from the Gamemakers. And they weren't happy about it. Not one tiny bit.

The morning would bring dawn on another day of the Games.

A few people were trying to drag him into the most celebration that they could muster for the temporary victory, the normal activities of the Hob. He refused with a shake of his head, picked up the game bag, and walked right back out, unable to stand the claustrophobic atmosphere of even a small crowd for one more moment.

He went straight for the woods.

Running. Through the dark, the streets, the alleys of the district. Right up to the fence, that was where he was going. If someone had chosen to attack him just then he would've been defenseless. All he could take in was the roar of blood in his ears, the racing of his heart, his own shallow breathing that he could see in the air.

Then he was in the woods, though he wasn't aware of slipping under the fence. Surrounded by the even more familiar setting, he just started to relax.

This, he knew. He would not trip in the dark.

He would not be blind to the Capitol's plans.


End file.
